Unfair Advantage

CHAPTER TWELVE





“I just got this place,” Dani told the detectives standing in her bare living room. “I haven’t even shopped for furniture yet. Even so, she knew where to find me.”



Larkin’s lowered brows and intense tone told her how serious he considered this. “Fielding, call the captain, tell him we have a situation to handle. We have to assume she’s followed us for a while. The whole thing may be compromised beyond salvage.”



“He’s gonna bite my ass, Larkin.” Tim dialed his cell, punched the numbers with reluctant slowness. He walked down the hall for privacy.



Dani bent to pet Buddy. The sick feeling remained in her stomach. “I knew this would happen.” She straightened.



He knelt, held out his hand. Buddy sniffed it, somewhat suspicious, then let Larkin rub his head. “She must have a good bit on us to approach you. Now she’ll break what she has in a hurry to prevent being scooped.”



“This is my worst fear.” The instant the intimate confession emerged, she regretted it.



Larkin gazed up at her. “Mine, too.”



The connection penetrated her, passed emotional defenses, sunk deep into her bones. She broke their locked gazes. Against her will, her eyes sought his again. A powerful surge of attraction arced between them.



Fielding walked back into the room, effectively breaking the connection. “That was pleasant. Do cell phones have volume control? If I have to go through that again I’ll turn deaf.”



Larkin stood. “What did he say?”



“Short version?” Tim whistled softly. “Good bit about … you know.” He glanced at her. “The problems using a psychic can cause. Few things about keeping an investigation from the media. All sprinkled between the curse words.”



Dani walked to the French doors. “Come on, Buddy.” She left the door open as he trotted out to explore the courtyard. The weather remained mild if a little damp. Not enough to cool her emerging temper. Anger at the new circumstances made her demand aloud, “How did she find out? How much can she know? And why would anyone willingly endanger an investigation like this?”



“Depending on how the captain wants to play it,” Larkin replied, “I may pay her an unofficial visit. Try to convince her to hold the story.”



She watched the puppy sniff along the fence, crossed her arms under her breasts. “You said it yourself. She won’t risk getting scooped. This will be all over the news in a matter of days.”









Mayan stepped from the elevator into his penthouse. She hadn’t stopped trembling since he’d called earlier that afternoon. The last time she’d come here, he’d done things to her she’d never heard of, let alone experienced. He possessed a gift for quickly learning secrets.



Secrets she’d never confessed even to herself.



It created an unnerving emotional mix of excitement and terrifying vulnerability. He looked into her darkest places, gave her the fantasies lurking unfulfilled in the shadows, and chained her further to him.



He sat on the couch wearing white gi pants that rode low on his slender hips. Hair loose around his shoulders, bearing almost princely, he reminded her of a painting she’d once seen at a gallery opening in SoHo. A stylized depiction of a sheik lounging among his harem.



Mayan set down her purse. Her stomach fluttered wildly as she saw the length of coiled red silk cord. He didn’t speak. She knew what he wanted. The turquoise cashmere knit dress she wore slipped easily off the shoulders, down to the floor. She stepped from it wearing a pale blue merry widow, matching panties and stockings, and Jimmy Choo heels.



She went to her knees, crawled to where he sat. Kneeling at his feet, heart hammering, almost light-headed with anticipation, she waited.



He flipped the cord out with a single motion, flicked her throat and collarbone with the silk. The sting heightened the slide of it as he repeated the gesture, this time lightly in a caress. Mayan couldn’t have curbed her moan had she wanted to. He knew the secrets of a woman’s body. The way a touch to neck or back, delicate skin of the wrist, inner arm or thigh could send a bolt of sensation through her like lightning.



She tried to control her breathing. Pace herself for the hours ahead. But, even more than knowing how to play her flesh like an instrument, he knew how to withhold stimulation and play her mind.



He idly rubbed the cord between his long fingers, brought it beneath his nose. “It still smells of you. How many times did you climax? I lost count after six.”



“So did I,” she admitted, flushed.



“Who should pay whom?” he mused, flicked the lash to slither across the top of her breasts.



Not dangerous to her, Mayan wondered. How so?







Roarke sat across from Captain Ferreli once again. “I tried to avoid this. But, it’s happened. We’ll adapt.”



“How?”



“I’ll try talking to her. That failing, we go public before she can. Get the vote in the court of public opinion.”



Ferreli rubbed his shiny-slick head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well if it comes to that, Larkin, we can’t have your mug on newspaper fronts and television sets. People take one look at you, start picturing you in bed with her. That’s all we fucking need.”



“Fielding’s got a sympathetic face. With enough coaching to keep him from choking, he’d come off right.”



“Talk to the reporter. Then we have to pow-wow over this new vic.”



Roarke stood. “Think I should have Fielding do that, too?”



“Jesus H.” The captain sighed heavily, seemed fresh out of his usual bluster. “Yeah. She gets a load o’ you, we will have a circus.”



“I’ll prep him.”



“Hope she’s not too pretty,” Ferreli commented.



“Maybe that would work to our advantage. Make him seem more vulnerable. Trustworthy.”



The captain waved him off. “Fix this shit, Larkin. Otherwise I’ll start drinking before noon.”







Peta Seymour looked up from her laptop when her door bell rang. Her camera man, Quincy, left an hour ago to get some flavor footage on the story they were chasing. She doubted he’d return so soon. Rising from behind her desk, she walked to the door of her Morningside apartment.



Another ring as she peered through the peep hole. A man she recognized held up a NYPD shield, said, “Detective Fielding, Miss Seymour. May I speak with you, please?”



She slipped the chain fastener into place, slid back the deadbolt and turned the knob lock and opened the door. “Let me have a closer look at that badge.”



He obliged. She’d done a bit on fake credentials six months ago. It had made her suspicious, and savvy. However, in this instance, she played the game. “One moment.” She returned to her desk, dialed his precinct. “I need to speak the commanding officer.”



Three minutes later, she hung up the phone, opened the door.



“Thank you,” the detective said.



Shut off from the rest by sliding pocket doors, the front room of her place she’d set up as an office with a small seating nook for interviews. The wet bar and a small Picasso had cost a small fortune. It gave the space professional luxury. Another costly, yet extremely useful feature? The multitude of small microphones hid in floral arrangements, behind frames, under seats. All fed to a central recording unit outside the office. The system could activate via her desktop computer’s keyboard. Or by remote from a secret switch in the small bathroom off the office.



On guard, she returned to her seat at the desk, motioned for him to sit in the one across it. Peta tapped the space bar on the desktop unit to wake it from hibernation, struck several keys in a hard command, then switched off the monitor. “How can I help you?” She knew exactly what he’d come to discuss.



He looked young. Cute. Spiky brownish-blond hair, blue eyes, nice nose and jaw. Great mouth. In a polite tone he began. “Miss Seymour, I’ve come on behalf of my precinct.”



She scrutinized him. His gaze held steady, hands fidgeted. She’d discerned the smell of smoke on him. “Light up, Detective Fielding.” She withdrew a pack of extra long slims from a drawer. She kept them just for such occasions.



The little kick added to them by the LSD always came as a welcome pick-me-up. It amused her have her treat in front of a cop. Winking, she took out a silver lighter. “I won’t call the PC patrol if you won’t.”



He surprised her.



“You feel free.” He seemed to compose himself. “I’d like to ask about your interest in Danielle Richards.”



“Little over a year ago everybody was interested. Why question me?” She withdrew a cigarette, flicked the Zippo to flame, took a drag and blew it upward.



“She’s involved in an open investigation of great magnitude.”



Peta experienced a thrill surge. “Can I quote you on that, detective?”



A second surprise. “If you’re taping this conversation, Miss Seymour, be advised that the New York City Police Department and District Attorney might challenge Amendment One in this case.” He leaned back a bit in the chair. “Given that your compromising it could give any perpetrator an unfair advantage. Therefore endanger further innocents. You might find yourself an accomplice after the fact.”



Peta almost smiled. “Show me a single precedent.”



He appeared flustered, slightly off-balance. Yet his retort struck solid. “There’s no criterion for a case like this. The first time sets the precedent. Correct?”



“You do what you do. I’ll do what I do.” Peta felt the first happy tingle of the acid lacing the cigarette. “Have a nice evening, detective.”



He stood. “Thanks for your time, Miss Seymour. I’ll see myself out.”



She watched him go, picked up the phone to call Quincy. When he answered, she said, “Detective Fielding just left. We’re on a hot one.”







Dave kept close to the wall. He’d already done some very physical and non-troglodyte recon checking the security situation. Tonight he watched his uncle punch in the eight digit code. Numbers came easy.



4-5-1-0-7-8-3-4.



Simple.



He’d come back in the morning, dodge the upstairs staff and have a quick look at whatever Uncle Raymond wanted to hide.